


No More Desire a Rose

by zuzeca



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Beast Wars
Genre: Animal Traits, M/M, Plug and Play Sex, Rough Sex, Scent Kink, Scents & Smells, Snark, Tactile Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-20 06:39:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuzeca/pseuds/zuzeca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rattrap discovers there’s a lot more to these new alt modes than eating garbage. Written for the kinkmeme prompt of “Scent”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No More Desire a Rose

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another old Transformers kinkmeme fill, for the exact same prompt as   
> [The Smell of Spiders](http://zuzeca.livejournal.com/14927.html) no less, though it's longer and a bit crackier. Link to the original prompt is here. Happy reading.

It began, as these things sometimes do, with an argument.

When he’d first come to earth he’d assumed, perhaps rather naively, that his beast mode was a mere shell. A covering slipped on to protect against energon surges, separate from his core structure and personality.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

It might not have affected him as strongly if he’d been a different model type, like say, the kid. Embarrassing as it was to admit, he simply wasn’t programmed to process scents in the same way. Visual surveillance was his specialty; smells were nothing more than an undercurrent in a larger environmental picture.

So he’d been completely blindsided by his beast mode’s potent senses.

Rats, in general, were not reputed to have strong noses. That was the domain of canids and the Fur Ball. Never saw rodents out following the trail of a sickly antelope. 

But when he’d clashed with Dinobrain over some imagined insult and the slag-sucker had wrenched him from the floor, wrapping long, jointed fingers around his throat, and tried to throttle the life from him, his tiny rat brain, the portion which wasn’t shrieking about how he was going to die, sat up and took notice.

He didn’t pay attention to it at the time, as his main processer was busy trying to figure out how to shove a gun barrel up the slagger’s exhaust port. But after the Boss Monkey inevitably showed up and bitched at them about team cohesion and the hole burned in the ceiling of the _Axalon_ and Dinobutt departed in a huff, he’d become aware of something odd.

They were only faint traces of scent, left along the parts of his plating beneath the saurian’s grip, but the fact he could smell them all was peculiar. Curious, he’d pressed his nose against his superstructure in an effort to get a better whiff.

It was akin to gripping a stripped live wire. He jerked his head back, vents running through an irregular cycle. The warm, heady smell, which should have been barely detectable to him, was unmistakable.

His rat nose couldn’t understand the sharp ozone tinge of heated metal and electricity it perceived beneath the light, sour scent of reptilian skin. It had no reason to. But his Cybertronian processor knew exactly what it was.

The mating rituals of their kind were complex, but consistent. Even taking into consideration the long cultural separation dating back to the Great War, they’d never split to the point of true evolutionary divergence. There were individual preferences in demonstrating interest, based on frame-type, a ground based form like himself simply wasn’t capable of say, the elaborate visual display of a flier, but some cues were universal.

_Chopperface is, to put it delicately, warm for my form._

_Slagging Pred wants to bump uglies._

_Great Primus._

The realization did not disturb him nearly as much as it should have. Maybe it was the side effect of having a beast mode with an interface drive the size of Unicron. Maybe it was cabin fever, Primus knew he hadn’t had a decent ‘face since that giggly bar fembot with the cute antennae back on Cybertron. Maybe it just meant he’d finally blown something inside his slagging processor.

Whatever it was, Rattrap decided to do something about it. And since logically he could discern no reason why the Pred would suddenly develop the desire to interface with him, barring massive processor meltdown or a level of sexual deviance which even _he_ didn’t want to consider, more information was in order.

He made it a point, on general principle, to scout out all of his crewmate’s quarters. Nothing personal mind you, but he’d lived, and survived, for far too long not to realize the value of information which could be gleaned from a mech’s personal space. And Chopperface, the newest, most suspicious addition to the _Axalon_ had the only room yet uninspected.

_Well, no time like the present. Next time Bronto Brain’s out on a mission, we’ll see._

 

Ten megacycles later, he got his chance. Dinobutt had been sent, or volunteered, for a solo patrol and his quarters were blissfully empty.

He tried the front door, best to check the obvious routes first, only to run headlong into the saurian’s computer defenses. They were good, he’d give the slag-sucker that much. _But they’ve never gone up against the master._ he thought and cracked his knuckles, smirking.

Five nanoklicks later, the door slid open.

He stepped through the hatch and allowed it to slip shut behind him. No sense in announcing his presence. Inside, he glanced around the room. It was a standard cabin and though spacious enough to accommodate a mech of Dinobot’s size, was Spartan to the point of being almost empty. Except, he noticed with a bit of dark amusement, the scaly skin of the ill-fated Pred clone, tacked onto a far wall, just above a personal console, screen black and silent.

_Tempting, but remember, that’s not what you’re here for._

Ignoring the siren call of the machine for the moment, he shifted into his beast mode, dropping down on four legs as the plates of his superstructure settled into place. Crouching low, he pressed his nose to the floor and breathed.

It hit him hard, crackling through his system like a jolt of high grade. One small forelimb buckled, and the part of his little rodent brain that responded to “mating receptivity” cues lit up like slagging _Sentinel_ when it detected Predacon approach. Shuddering, his processor reeling, he clawed against the floor, nails clicking and scraping as he writhed.

Of course the wriggling only served to smear the scent all over him, particles catching and clinging in his fur. External sensors reacted, touch cues compounding as he rolled over, stimulating as a physical stroke. High, ultrasonic squeals, like no sound he’d even known he could produce, bubbled out of him and an energy surge swelled in his chassis as his spark pulsed and heated.

Overload achieved solely through tactile stimulation was not an easy thing to accomplish. He’d never managed it, and certainly not in his alt mode, but then he’d never lacked for partners. Or for that matter, gone extensive periods between encounters. He knew it was possible; once he plied him with enough high grade Rhinox had a surprising number of stories to tell, including a particularly juicy one involving a cleaner bot. But it was one thing to know something was possible, and another to feel the swell of current and realize you were about to overload with nothing more than the touch of cold ground and the scent of a ‘face-ready mech.

Then, just as he rolled back upright and pressed his belly to the floor in a movement simultaneously alien and completely instinctual, Chopperface burst through the door with a thunderclap snarl and an upraised blade. 

_I knew it, I’m going to die._

He had to admit though, even backed by the certainty that he was about to be deactivated, the expression on Dinobutt’s face was absolutely priceless.

 

For several klicks, they were both frozen.

Rebooting his vocalizer a few times, at last he squeaked out the first words that flashed across his processor, “You had a proxy alarm in place.”

It was a statement, not a question, but Dinobot nodded stiffly anyway. It seemed he’d finally managed what he’d been trying to do for megacycles; he’d rendered the slagger speechless.

“Impressive,” he admitted, “I haven’t run into one of those for an age.” Truth was, they weren’t standard in _Axalon_ security and it took a damn good programmer to set one up. He hadn’t even thought to check.

The saurian didn’t say a word.

Desperate, he plowed on “Well, I’d say ‘this isn’t what it looks like’, but in this case, it’s probably exactly what it looks like.” He tried for a sheepish laugh, though it came out a little more high pitched than he’d like “Would you believe ‘pitiful Maximal processor overwhelmed by organic instincts’?”

Red optics narrowed, “Perhaps, though that does not fully explain why you are trying to engage in what I can only guess is an organic reproductive ritual with my floor, rather than consuming garbage or burrowing in filth, as I hear vermin are wont to do.” His voice, though more hoarse than usual, was even in a way that said. _You better have a good reason for invading my room and humping my floor, or so help me I’m going to turn you into scrap._

“Uh…”

_Slag._

Thankfully, necessity, that beautiful mother of invention and its bastard brother bullshit, leapt to his aid. After all, he was a gambler by nature, and what could it hurt? It wasn’t like Lizard Brain could deactivate him _twice_.

“Care to join me?”

Dinobot jerked back and his optics widened beyond what should have been possible given standard construction parameters, “Are you mad or merely mocking me, Vermin?” His tone was livid.

_Mad? Probably._

“Serious as a ticking explosive, Chopperface. I want ya. What’s more, _you_ want me.”

“How utterly presumptuous of you.”

“Oh can it, Gear Head. I can smell it coming off ya thicker than hydrocarbon vapor. Sheesh, and you say _I_ reek.”

Dinobot’s mouth tightened, “I am quite sure I have no idea what you are talking about, rodent.”

He wished for an instant he had some kind of gift for poetry or eloquent speech. All of his previous partners had opened up with nothing more than a cube of high grade and a flattering comment concerning their chestplates. He cast a desperate glance at the velociraptor jaw mounted on Dinobot’s broad chassis, before discarding the idea. _He’d just blow my head off for that anyway, slag it._

Rattrap blew a cycle through his vents and steeled himself, “You want to play it that way? Fine. Not that I can really blame ya. You were what, special ops?” He guessed by Dinobot’s silence that he wasn’t far off, “I was surveillance myself. We’re not like those damn trackers or scouts. Don’t go around huffing interface partners like powdered energon. Should have stuck a slagging warning on these alt modes—”

“Does this nattering have a point?” the saurian interrupted. His claws were clenched at his sides and he hadn’t put aside his blade.

“ _My point_ ,” he growled, grinding his incisors together, “is that even a half-glitched scrap heap such as yourself should get the hint when a mech comes in smelling three notches from overheating. Primus, you might as well have shoved your interface array in my face.”

Cautious, aware he might get skewered at any moment, he shifted out of his alt mode and stood. This only brought him up to about Dinobot’s waist, but the added height gave him courage and he stared up at the other mech, defiant, “So, how about it? You gonna join me in a bit of ‘organic reproductive ritual’ time? Or you gonna try to beat me into slag?”

Dinobot bent down, looming over him. Needle teeth bared in an expression just a shade too fierce for true mirth. 

“With any luck, perhaps I can do both.”

 

He was going to find the mech who had first taught Dinobot how to interface, and he was going to turn him into ever-loving _scrap_.

He didn’t know a lot about Predacon culture, but it was typically considered bad form among Maximals to attempt to grind your partner into dust against the berth.

Too bad his already excited sensors found this _really_ stimulating.

But invigorating or not, if he didn’t get the slagger off of him, he was going to end up denting something major. And he’d be fragged if he was going to ask Rhinox to fix something like that. Bad enough the kid would be probably giving him some funny looks for the next megacycle, until the smell wore off, he’d never live it down if he got injured during interface.

“Oi, Bronto Brain,” he snapped, banging his fist against the other mech’s superstructure. “Let up a bit, will you?”

Dinobot shifted some of his bulk up onto his elbows, “My apologies. It has been some time since I interfaced with someone of your…stature.”

Amusement absolutely dripped from his tone.

_Alright, that’s it._

He slammed one hand into the arm braced between him and the outside edge of the berth. Reaching up, he latched onto the unbalanced saurian as they tumbled to the floor in a tangle of limbs. This provoked an angry growl from Dinobrain and a near miss with a sharp corner, but he achieved his goal.

He was finally on top.

“Glitched vermin!” snarled Dinobot. “What in the Inferno are you doing?”

“Cool it, Chopperface. Just lay back and enjoy.”

Levering himself up against the saurian’s chest, he pressed his nose against a main transformation seam which ran along the length of Dinobot’s chassis and licked.

Oh, that was _nice_. The portion of his processor labeled “rat” went incandescent and from the pleased rumble which issued from beneath him, vibrations passing through his body and making his sensors flare, Dinobutt found it pretty nice too.

_That’s right, Chopperface._ Smirking, he dug his small nails into tough, reptilian flesh and bit.

Clawed fingers scraped down his sides and Dinobot’s chest split, nearly unseating him. Spark-light blazed and cables snaked out, stretching, seeking. Drunk on taste-smell, he just managed to trigger the command to open his own chassis.

Cables twined, locked into input ports, and suddenly charge became _current_.

Dinobot shrieked, an utterly alien and organic sound, and bucked beneath him. Claws reached out and grabbed for his shoulders, dragging him in close and pointed teeth sank into the soft tissue of part of his beast mode. The motion brought their spark chambers into proximity, and even without direct contact, the surge of energy pushed them into overload.

At least overload was what he’d always called it before. Between the length of the encounter and the strange doubled stimulation from two analysis sources, robotic and organic, this was closer to an eruption. A string of electrical surges which swelled into a conflagration, blanking out his processor and sending visible sparks crackling across his superstructure.

It didn’t quite knock them offline, but it was a close thing.

Shaking, he managed to remain perched until all cables were retracted and tucked in their proper places, before his limbs buckled and he allowed himself to topple to the floor beside the other mech.

“Wow.”

“Indeed.”

Silence, but for the puff of vents and the low clink of cooling metal.

And then, because his tongue was entirely incapable of self preservation “So, you still going to try to beat me into scrap?”

A snort of amusement “Congratulations, Vermin. You have managed to fatigue me such that I find myself disinclined to try.”

Smirking, he settled into a more comfortable position. “So we’ll have try this ‘organic reproductive ritual’ thing again some time?” he hedged.

Dinobot didn’t answer for a moment. “I would not be…adverse to a repeat encounter,” he said finally, his tone quiet and a just a touch contemplative.

_Yeah, yeah, ‘would not be adverse’ my aft. Primus, Chopperface, how long have you been carrying this around?_

“After all, if I were to spurn you, you would likely shove your wet vermin nose into my chestplate and declare me a liar.” 

“Slagging right I would.”

Dinobot snorted, “I suppose I can learn to tolerate your stench.”

“Pot, kettle, Chopperface.”

“Humph, ‘a very ancient and fish-like smell’ indeed.”

“I’ll show you who smells like fish, Lizard Lips.”

It would take some getting used to, but he thought he might learn to like this new arrangement. And he had to admit, ‘facing with the slagger was even more satisfying than arguing with him.

Almost.


End file.
